by Kody Boye
“I’m an architectural student!”
“Exactly!” Lyra swung the iron and tested her grip. “Who’s going to take you seriously when you say you study architecture?”
“This isn’t funny, Lyra.”
“The whole thing isn’t funny!” she snapped. “We have to make the preemptive strike—now, before the bitch turns and anyone gets hurt.”
“And what happens when the soldiers turn their guns on us, huh? What then?”
Lyra’s eyes widened. The mad abandon dissipated like smoke from a discharged gun.
Rose narrowed her eyes. “You really didn’t think of that?”
“What?” her friend asked. “Not like you can blame me. Who the hell has their head on straight right now?”
“Definitely not us, and especially not you.”
The silence was proof enough.
As Lyra leaned around the corner to secure the iron, Rose directed her eyes toward the far side of the room.
Between them and what could be a monstrous catastrophe stood only a wooden door.
The horrifying truth was that they had nowhere to go.
They couldn’t leave.
They were stuck.
And there was absolutely nothing they could do about it.
“We stay in here,” Lyra said that evening, after a tremendous amount of stewing in the knowledge that they were trapped, “and we don’t make a sound.”
Her nod was the most automatic action Rose could ever recall committing.
Reaching forward, Lyra braced her hand along the series of light switches, then flicked them off.
Almost instantly, the room was thrust into darkness.
There was no decision as to where they would sleep. They merely crawled on top of the mattress to wait the night out.
Though there was little she could do but wait, Rose fought to maintain her sanity.
Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes like godforsaken hours.
Eventually, she fell into a lull that only partially resembled sleep.
Gaze set to the door, breaths even but heart the casual chord upon which the false hand played—she registered everything. From the faint swell of the ship to the mismatched footsteps in the hallway, there wasn’t a thing that got past her half-conscious mind. The only thing that bothered her was how quiet it was.
After everything they’d been through, one would think there would be at least a little noise.
It didn’t matter.
Immediately after that thought, she blacked out.
“Rose,” Lyra said. “Wake up.”
She opened her eyes to find the world dark and without mercy. The calm undefeated, the atmosphere light and without tension—her natural inclination to ask if something was wrong was overridden by the fact that she’d been awoken at some ungodly hour of the night.
Still in the twilight hours of what she assumed was early morning, the room was lit only by the moon and the occasional bursts of lightning—which, stark in its contrast, revealed the door barricaded with what little they could move about the room.
It was without doubt that Rose realized that something was wrong, and when she expelled a breath in preparation to speak, she did so with an unnerving sense of calm that she barely believed possible.
Sitting up, she inclined her head toward Lyra and asked, “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure,” her friend said, grimacing as the ship rocked and a bark of thunder rolled across the sea. “I thought I heard someone scream, but… maybe I was just imagining things.”
Something thumped against the wall outside their room.
“What was that?” Rose asked.
Breathlessly, Lyra reached out to clamp a hand around Rose’s mouth.
The instinct to recoil was utterly overwhelming.
Somehow, Rose fought the effort and allowed her friend to guide her back against her body as the thumping continued.
It can’t be, she thought, desperate that the false promise would not be denied. Please, God. It can’t be. It.
A low, guttural moan extinguished all sense of hope.
Could it be one of them, or was she just imagining things—that it was only the ocean and the slowly-escalating storm?
Swallowing, Rose eased herself off the bed and lowered herself to the ground. “What all have you heard?” she asked.
“Hardly anything,” her friend replied. “Maybe I’m just imagining things. It could just be the weather, you know? Boats make a lot of weird noises. But I heard footsteps outside and then a noise like… like—”
Lyra faltered.
She didn’t have to continue.
In light of how subtly this had all begun, it made sense that a whimper would be heard in place of a bang.
It made even more sense that several people might have died before anyone even noticed.
The first of the screams were heard only briefly before they were drowned out by a peal of thunder, the next experienced in full as the echoes dispersed into the night. Only briefly acquainted with the silence of those flocked to the slaughter, Rose kneeled in silent trepidation before it began anew—barking, madly, like dogs swarming the clouded streets.
In such confined quarters, sounds were magnified to a fever pitch.
Childish instinct drove her to lower herself until she could just barely see over the mattress.
As undesirable as it happened to be, their position benefited them in the fact that the bed had been placed far back in the room. Built from steady wood, it offered the best defense against any wayward gunfire that might enter the room.
But they wouldn’t, Rose thought. They couldn’t.
If walls could talk, they would say no—that they were not strong, that they were not steady, that though firm and capable of fending away the sea, they would not withstand the test of lead.
Under extreme circumstances, people panicked.
It’d only take one misguided thought for someone to draw a gun.
The only thing that stood between them was a simple wooden door.
If something were to get into the room—if something were to run straight toward them—they would be directly in the path of danger.
Their silence was lifesaving.
Compared to the chaos taking place outside, they could’ve been on the Moon.
Houston, control said. We have a problem.
They’d been unable to determine the speed at which the infection occurred. Mary’s condition could’ve been exacerbated by shock, and other underlying health issues would’ve easily contributed to her demise: influenza, meningitis, pneumonia, tuberculosis, malaria—they said that everything had cancer, that it wasn’t until the cells divided ten million times that it was noticed within the body. For that, Rose had to question just how long it would take for a bite to result in death.
Mary had died within a night; hours, if they wanted to be honest.
This woman—the one who’d been bitten—could’ve turned just as quickly as Mary. And if her husband hadn’t seen anyone turn prior…
Rose swallowed.
The idea of a wound factoring into how quickly one turned was utterly terrifying.
The man without some of his face, with his limp, his shredded body—
The way they were still moving after falling from a third-story building.
The way Mary hadn’t stopped until Lyra crushed her skull.
It really is like the movies, then, Rose thought. You really do have to hit them in the head.
A jarring scream followed by several howls ripped through the hallway.
The cacophony reverberated in tune to the rocking ship.
The noise was so loud it seemed to take on a life of its own, was nightmarish in its brutality, but it wasn’t until the wails of someone in pain spiraled into the air that Rose realized the nightmare had just begun.
Someone was being eaten alive just outside their room.
Just be quiet, she thought she heard a voice say, though whether it was L
yra’s or someone else’s, she couldn’t be sure.
At the brink of it all, Rose shrunk against Lyra and closed her eyes.
Their hands touched.
Their fingers laced.
This was it, Rose realized.
It was them versus the world.
She couldn’t make sense of what time she awoke. During the hour at which light had begun to spool upon the world, she opened her eyes to find herself on the floor, and wondered briefly why she was here.
She blinked.
It was no sooner than she felt her fingers snared in Lyra’s that it all came back.
Their flight, their escape, their false salvation, the woman’s arm, the cries, followed by the screams and howls and screams that had made the world a living hell—
Her ignorance was no longer the temple at which she wished to worship.
It didn’t take much to think that everyone but them was dead.
Wouldn’t someone have come? she thought.
If anyone had survived. That was the real key here. And to think anyone would’ve done anything was absolutely ridiculous. Just because someone had managed to ride out the storm didn’t mean they were going to come out, guns blazing, and rescue them from their hallowed grounds. No. Her and Lyra’s predicament was evidence enough.
Yayir…
She swallowed a lump in her throat and closed her eyes.
Not once throughout all the chaos had she heard the discharge of a gun.
If he were to have been forced into such a position—if he were to have tried to save as many people as he could…
Rose shook her head.
She couldn’t think about the implications.
Just as she’d considered before, she had to believe they were alone.
Control was gone. The great tower had fallen.
Slipping her hand from Lyra’s, she rolled onto her side and brushed her fingers along her friend’s face. “Hey,” she said, gently tapping her cheek. “Lyra. Wake up.”
Her friend’s eyes snapped open. Snorting, she slapped Rose away and thrust herself against the wall in a single flourish, eyes wide and chest heaving.
“It’s me,” Rose said.
Lyra craned her head in an attempt to view the doorway. “Has anyone come?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“Then no one is.”
Though loath to admit it, Rose nodded and drew away.
Rising, she set her sights on the door and cast a glance around the room, her eyes instinctively falling to the bathroom threshold and the various contents within. While they’d been quick in their attempts to seal themselves inside, they’d dwelled little on what they would do if something happened to break in.
Rose’s bat lay near the bed—propped against the headrest and ready to grab at any given moment—while the clothing iron was nearly in arm’s reach. Beyond that, she could think of nothing that would give them enough momentum to strike down the fearsome creatures outside.
Without being instructed, Lyra slid into the bathroom, detached the clothing iron from its place on the wall, and returned a moment later, careful to toss the bulky contraption on the firmer part of the mattress.
“We’re gonna have to leave eventually,” she said as Rose glanced away from her and toward the bat. “You know it’s true.”
“I know.”
“We don’t have any water in here, much less any food for us to eat. I mean, sure—sink might work, but—you know…”
Rose nodded.
There was only so long they could go off tap water, and regardless, it would not provide them with food or nutrients.
Reaching down, Rose took hold of her bat and braced herself for what was to come.
They couldn’t run, and they definitely couldn’t hide.
The only thing they could do was fight.
The hall was covered in blood.
In the faint light streaming through the windows and down the open stairwell, Rose and Lyra stepped into the living quarters and glanced about for any signs of movement. Though they could see nothing, the carnage was proof enough of the events that had taken place. Where once there had existed a luxury estate, there stood a wasteland of human suffering.
Leather couches were gutted. Glass littered the floor. Flesh and hair adorned random surfaces, and the walls were splashed with matter. Even the chandelier, ornate in the crowns of horned animals, had fallen to the floor, and now lay scattered like a boneyard.
At the thought, Rose swallowed a lump in her throat.
It could be a burial ground, she realized quite begrudgingly, if they have it their way.
But where were the zombies, if not here?
“Uh… Rose,” Lyra said. “You might want to take a look at this.”
She turned her head.
Protruding from what little remained of a sofa was a pair of legs, visible only from the ankle down.
“He’s not one of ‘em,” Lyra said after Rose made no move to offer input. “If he was, he would’ve already gotten up.”
“He’s dead then,” Rose said. “Isn’t he?”
Taking hold of the clothing iron, Lyra gave the couch in front of them a wide berth and carefully approached.
Rose followed.
It was obvious from Lyra’s reaction that the sight wouldn’t be pretty.
When Rose stepped into view, she nearly hurled.
All that remained of the man was his legs, along with a mismatched ensemble of bone and flesh.
“Fuck,” Lyra managed, turning her head.
Something flickered on the far other side of the room.
Rose’s head shot up.
Her fingers tightened around her bat.
She could’ve sworn she’d seen something—that the light trickling down the right stairwell had briefly been disturbed—but then it was gone, just like that.
Could it have been the shadow from a cloud? A person? A figure?
Rose waited.
The shadow passed again.
This time, she had no doubts.
“Lyra,” Rose said, struggling to remain calm as she realized they could easily be trapped here. “I want you to listen to me and do exactly what I say, all right?”
Her friend didn’t respond. Rose took it as a sign to keep going, and took a deep breath.
“Start making your way to the stairway on the left,” she continued, “but be as quiet as you can. I think they’re up there.”
She didn’t wait for Lyra to make her move.
Turning, Rose stepped forward, adjusted her hold on the bat, and nodded as Lyra’s cautious eyes sought hers.
Her friend’s feet navigated the labyrinthine expanse of blood, and carefully settled between the dead man’s dismembered legs.
It was only after Lyra had begun her advance that Rose realized what she’d done.
She’d led them through the living room—directly where the chandelier had fallen.
Before she could reach out and pull Lyra back, her foot landed on a piece of antler.
The snap that ripped through the interior was comparable to a bomb exploding.
Lyra froze.
Something shifted.
The shadow in the stairwell returned.
“Run,” Rose said.
Lyra had just taken off when the first scream sailed into the air.
The first of the corpses barreled down the stairwell at a speed unlike any Rose could’ve anticipated, and launched itself at her. Caught off-guard by the amount of debris in the room, it stumbled over the antlers and propelled itself into Rose’s bat, which caved in the side of its head moments before it could reach her.
The tallest of the undead—whom Rose saw was Yayir—looked over the heads of those beneath it and howled.
“Rose!” Lyra cried.
As one, the corpses turned.
Lyra retreated just as Rose took off.
She thanked her junior high years of track and vaulted over the chandelier before taking off after Lyra. Stru
ggling to maintain her balance as the ship swayed, she lashed out at the railing and slapped her hand around it just in time to pull herself forward.
The door was only a few feet away. If only she could make it—
A corpse lashed out at her.
A quick kick crushed its nose and sent it barreling down the stairs, taking out several of the undead with it.
Rose barreled onto the deck.
In her haste, she’d completely forgotten about last night’s rain.
The deck was still wet.
She pin-wheeled her arms in an effort to maintain her balance, but there was nothing she could do.
She slipped.
She fell.
She screamed.
The bat flew from her hand and spun into the unforeseeable distance as momentum launched her across the deck. Unable to stop herself, she struggled to grab hold of anything. The wooden accents, the granite blocks, the hinges where furniture could be bolted down—when one hand finally slapped around a parasol, she jammed her shoulder to keep her hold.
Rose swore her heart had stopped beating.
One second more and she would’ve been in the ocean.
But that was the least of their worries.
The first of the undead chasing her went flying over the railing, either sent sliding by the precipitation or by its reckless pursuit. The few whose dumb luck favored them spun and instantly started toward Rose, leaving her only a fraction of a second to vault to her feet and start toward the bow.
Throughout everything, she’d managed to lose track of Lyra.
Where could she have gone?
“Lyra!” Rose cried. “Lyra!”
The bark of gunfire nearly sent Rose to her knees. Stumbling, she refused to look back as a second, then third shot rang out behind her. Her fingers latched around the railing and she guided herself forward as her shoulder throbbed and one leg quivered in agony. Eventually, she made it to the front of the ship and found there were only a handful of zombies remaining, one of which was gunned down the moment she laid eyes on it.
She lifted her head.
Her eyes sought the highest point.
Standing atop the sundeck was none other than Lyra, a pistol in hand.
